


Some Love Stories Need A Little Help

by graceverse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Headcanon, Matchmaking, season 6 ficlet, silly short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceverse/pseuds/graceverse
Summary: Or how Tormund effectively makes Jon share a tent with Sansa





	Some Love Stories Need A Little Help

Cold northern wind whipped through their camp’s main pavilion. It sounded like an open palm angrily, repeatedly slapping at the tent’s canvass. It was loud and distracting enough to ensure that Jon will not be able to sleep tonight. Not that he had any plans of sleeping. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to.

Perhaps it was just one of the many side effects of being brought back from the dead. Sleep would never come easy. Jon wasn’t sure if he was actually thankful for that. 

The shorter he slept, the shorter the nightmares. That’s one good thing, at least.

Jon refused to drink the jug of sour goat’s milk Tormund had given him earlier. He didn’t want to be drunk. He wanted to be clear headed, to be able to look at the same map – Stark pieces against Bolton pieces, facing each other in a battle field – in a different way. 

Maybe see a weakness on the other side that had not been obvious at the first, second, third -  _hundredth_ glance. Maybe there was some military tactic that they had not yet considered. But he had walked around their battle plan for a solid hour or so and it remained as it had earlier: they were outnumbered.  The only advantage they had was the barely suppressed fury that was burning inside his chest, that pure dark violence that had been hovering around him ever since Sansa had read Ramsay's letter out loud. He  _wanted_  to defeat Ramsay as savagely and completely as possible. Would his anger be enough to defeat Bolton and his army? 

No. Not in a thousand years, no. But he let his rage simmer. Tomorrow it would help at least and he needed all the help that he could get. 

He recalled every word in that goddamned letter. Ramsay had threatened Sansa and Rickon. A woman and a child. Ramsay’s cowardice disgusted him on a level that he didn’t think was possible. He had lived at Castle Black with criminals – thieves, murders and rapists, the worst kind of human beings, and yet Ramsay seemed to be a man who was  _beyond_  redemption. In fact, Jon was certain that Ramsay did not want redemption. He was the kind of man Jon would have no qualms killing.

And he wasn’t especially planning on giving Ramsay a quick death. Not after everything he had done to Sansa – which, Jon didn’t know the exact details, but could easily sense in Sansa’s deeply sudden silences, her blue eyes dilating, her face turning into the sick yellow color of fear and horror. He knew that look. He had seen shades of it in Gilly’s eyes, in the children of the Free Folks who had been running from the Army of the Dead all their lives, in the Free Folks themselves who had seen their brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, friends and family savagely killed and then turned into the dead who were hunting them.

A part of Jon was desperate to know all of Sansa’s wounds, find a way to soothe her pain. But a part of him was also too scared to discover the agonies she had to endure.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could see her standing at Castle Black, her cheeks smudged with dirt, her auburn hair in total disarray. So very far from the last image of her that he remembered: prim and proper Lady Sansa, radiantly smiling at the feast, her blue eyes twinkling with excitement.

Jon had thought her a dull child, compared to her siblings at least. She was always eager to please Lady Catelyn, always admiringly looking up at Father and Robb, always wary of him and Theon. The Sansa that had stood at Castle Black, moving in a slow, tight circle, eyes searching, he almost did not recognize her. But as soon as he did, Jon had been completely taken aback at how vulnerable she had looked. So painfully  _young_. 

It didn’t make sense. He hadn’t seen her in years, Jon knew that Sansa was now older, no longer the little Lady of Winterfell. He could clearly see it, even in her tattered clothes, that she was now a woman grown, startlingly, wonderfully beautiful even in her worn-down state. And yet her face had that achingly gentle look of a lost child.

It made Jon want to hold her close to him forever, to never let anyone hurt her ever again. She had endured enough and it was up to him to make sure that she will never suffer at the hand of any man, woman, Lord or Queen. It didn't matter. He will even stand against a kingdom that threatened her safety. 

Jon was willing to fight endless wars for her.

And it terrified him sometimes, the depth of his feelings. She’s his sister of course and father and Robb would not only expect that he protect her, they would demand it of him. Jon felt that somehow, he had failed his father and Robb when he had been unable to ride South and fight with them. This was his chance to make himself worthy of the Stark blood running through his veins.

Protect Sansa. Save Rickon. Take Winterfell. Find Arya. Find Bran. Keep them all safe within the walls of their home. 

Jon closed his eyes and brought his hands to his face, fingers massaging his temple which was hurting like someone had hit him with a shield. There was a low, constant ringing inside his ears. He must not let his feelings take over; he must not feel too much. He had already made that mistake with Sansa. He could still hear their heated argument echoing inside his head. He gritted his teeth. 

She was right. 

It scared Jon how easily Sansa could tell him such cold truths: Rickon will not live long, Ramsay will not make the mistake of letting Rickon live longer than necessary. Ramsay was only keeping Rickon alive to taunt him. The mere thought of Rickon at the hands of Ramsay was making Jon’s flesh crawl.

Worst, Sansa had not so subtly told him that she would rather die by her own hands should Ramsay win. Jon couldn’t get the image of Sansa, knife against her throat, backing away into a corner. He would not want to live in a world that would allow such a horrible fate for her. He had made it a point to order Melisandre to not to bring him back should he fail. He would not be able to live with himself knowing that he had caused such a horrible end for Sansa. Even if he could avenge her, it would not mean anything. It would be an empty self-serving act. It would not bring her back and he would rather join her then, with Father and Robb and even Lady Catelyn. 

But Jon had a bad feeling that his command would be ignored. He would have to ask Tormund to ensure that he would not be brought back to life. If he was without a head, perhaps that would make it more difficult? Or if he was burned into ashes, will the Red Woman still be able to pull him back from the dead? He’d have to ask Tormund to do both, just to be sure. It would be horribly gruesome, but Tormund would do what was necessary and he would understand.

As though he had called his friend’s name out loud, Jon was startled by the sound of Tormund drunkenly stumbling into the tent. He watched as Tormund surveyed the insides of the tent. He looked utterly unimpressed as he ambled towards him. 

“Snow.” Tormund greeted him with a shit-eating grin.

“Are you certain you’d still be able to fight tomorrow?” Jon asked raising his eyebrows as Tormund gleefully hiccuped.

Tormund dragged a chair over to where he was standing, dropped unto it and raised his legs on the table, rattling the pieces over at the Bolton's side. “Aye, I’d fight like a great bear tomorrow. I’d bite off the head of that fucker, Ramsuck Boatbang.”

Jon blinked, before correcting him. “Ramsey Bolton.” 

“Aye,” Tormund leaned forward, stabbing Jon in the chest with his finger, “the bastard that hurt your sister.”

Jon swallowed the sudden anger that rose up to his throat. “Aye.” 

Tormund raised his cup, as though in salute of the obvious rancor in Jon's voice. He took a long slow sip and once again, offered him the cup. Jon sighed, shook his head and settled at the chair across his friend, resting his elbows against his knees, studying the bloody map from yet another angle. 

“Speaking of your sister,” Tormund paused to look around, “where is she?”

Jon tilted his head, unsure of where this question was leading. “In her own tent, why?”

“Bollocks that. I thought she’d be here with you.” Tormund shook his head in obvious dismay, “Is the big woman with her then?”

Ah. Brienne. Jon couldn’t help the chuckle escaping him, “Aye, I suppose she is.”

“Good then. Good.” Tormund was nodding off, already on the verge of sleep. “She’d be able to fight off those ugly Thenns.” He mumbled distractedly. 

Jon blinked. “Why would she– ” He sat up straighter, feeling his stomach nervously clenching. “Tormund, why did you come here looking for Sansa?”

“Eh? Oh!” Tormund made big circular hand gestures, “Heard a bunch of Thenns talking nonsense, planning on stealing ‘Snow’s kissed-by-fire-sister’.”

“WHAT?!” Jon had stood up so abruptly, his chair violently toppled unto the floor. He didn’t wait for Tormund to say anything more, Jon stormed off, grabbing Longclaw on his way and hurrying outside. He would hate to start a fight in his own army, but if those Thenns touched a strand of Sansa's hair... 

Tormund watched as Jon disappeared into the night, angrily muttering death and damnation. He settled deeper into his chair, casually brushing off some fallen snow from his coat, smiling slowly, looking extra pleased with himself.

True, Free Folks had always looked down on Kneelers and their penchant for marrying sisters and cousins and the like, but Jon _**isn't**_ a Free Folk. Who was he to judge him and their customs when Snow had welcomed them into the North? There will be a battle tomorrow and judging by those silly little pieces on the table, it didn't look like they had much of a chance. Snow should be able to spend his last night to do as he pleases. He had been with Snow and his sister long enough to not just suspect, but  _know._ He was doing Snow a favor, really. Those long lingering glances and Snow sputtering over cloaks and his sweet sister preening at him. Tormund wasn't the romantic type but he wasn't fucking blind either. 

Snow would thank him later and Tormund will have to bribe the Thenns, they wouldn't be pleased when Snow starts giving them death glares, threatening them with beheading and....eyes growing wide with horror at the sudden realization, Tormund suddenly bolted out of his chair.  _Oh fuck! Oh fucking, fuck!_

Letting out another oath, Tormund hurried out, shouting over the whipping wind, calling out Snow to stop, for fuck's sake! "Let me go over to the Thenns camp," he told him as soon as he caught up with Jon, grasping his shoulders to prevent Snow from going further. "You should go to your Lady Sister instead," he added, practically roaring at Jon's ear. He vaguely gestured over the other tents surrounding them, ordering Jon to hurry the fuck up. "Best to spend the night with her. Just to be sure, you never know with those ugly fuckers.”

Jon stared at him with wild eyes, looking disconcerted. "Spend the night..." was muttered so softly, Tormund wasn't even sure if Jon had actually spoken. He pushed Snow towards that direction and Snow seemed to have decided that that made more sense; he wordlessly turned around and walked past him, glassy eyed and is that a slight blush? Tormund hadn't seen Snow miserably blushing since Ygritte.

Well. Well. 

Tormund watched as Jon purposely strode towards the Lady Sansa's tent. He sighed with relief and shaking his head, muttered darkly, “what a bloody fucking idiot! Must I do everything?” He grudgingly went towards the Thenns, wondering if offering them some good sour goat's milk as way of apology for almost getting them killed tonight would be enough. It's not like they'd appreciate it anyway. He looked glumly at his cup and sighed. He hated sharing his drink. 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little silly fic to counter the darkness that was my last fic that we shall never talk about ever again. Hope you enjoy reading this :)


End file.
